Change
by Owls The Sailor
Summary: After the war, Hermione struggled to find her place. The government remained no better than before, in fact even worse, and her persecutors roamed free. So she escaped, only to return as a pureblood.


**A/N:** This is by far the longest thing I have written in a while and it will only get larger. This is part one in a three maybe two part series for the Triwizard challenge on the Hogwarts House Challenges forum. I'm fairly certain that they are aim to kill us with this challenge of writing rather long multi-chap/one-shot fics about these very odd/slightly far fetched plots.

My plot is essentially Hermione realizes that muggleborns will amount to nothing because of purebloods in the government. So, she forges a bloodline and makes herself a pureblood to change it; however, she never expected to catch Draco's eye. Unfortunately or fortunately, I have decided to go against the grain and not make this a Dramione fic. It's a risky choice has that is what the plot was hinting at, but my wonderful beta GoDownWithThisShip mentioned how over done the Draco redemption through Hermione is. After I did decide against it, it opened a way for maybe friendship and this very interesting dynamic for the characters. I would really like to know what people think about it, so leave reviews!

Anyways, Prompts, there aren't many but they are still there.

(word) devious

(song) Call Me When You're Sober by Evanescence (Which I don't own by the way or am in no way claiming to own because I posses no creative ability to write/create music in that fashion; however, I do quote the song, but still don't claim to own it.)

Hoots,

Owls

P.S. Word count is 4,712

* * *

 **Act One:**

 **Change**

 _Can't keep believing,_

 _We're only deceiving ourselves ._

 _And I'm sick of the lie,_

 _And you're too late._

~ Call Me When You're Sober by Evanescence

The Burrow was always busy. People popped in and out at all hours of the day delivering news the remaining members of the Order about the rebuilding of the wizarding world. And through it all, Molly Weasley still greeted every guest, made sure they were fed, and showed them the kindness that she would always been known for. Hermione marveled at how strong the woman was. It was something that one day she hoped to attain, but the likelihood that it would ever happen was slim.

"Hermione, love," the woman called from the living room where she was finally getting a break. The aforementioned bushy haired brunette was in the kitchen reading as the pots and pans magically cleaned themselves and cooked food.

She blinked at her book, coming back into reality suddenly and experiencing a strange form of vertigo. "Yes, Molly?" She called back.

"I think the mail's here," Molly shouted back.

Hermione nodded, though she knew the woman couldn't see her through the walls (but she did have her doubts about that too.) She heard the knocking at the window that Molly had probably heard, but had evaded Hermione in her reading state.

She opened the window, just as she heard someone new pop into existence outside the front door. "I'm coming, I'm coming," Molly grumbled. Hermione chuckled and rolled her eyes.

Outside, there was an owl weighted down by the many letters from people who couldn't come to visit themselves because of how busy, lazy or far way they were. Molly sent a little bag of treats with every response letter sent, though Hermione typically wrote those as Molly was already busy talking to visitors and Hermione had better handwriting.

"Ron! Harry! Come in!" The woman cried, probably hugging the two men as they tried to get through the door.

"Mum!" Hermione heard Ron shout, muffled by his mother's death grip.

"Hello, Molly," Harry said– she could practically hear him grinning at Ron's discomfort.

"Hey Ron! Harry!" She called out, but didn't go into the living room. Instead, Hermione began to sort through all of the letters the poor owl had been carrying.

Since the end of the war, the British Magical Community had been obsessed with rebuilding. They wanted their country not only well but better than before. There was new architecture. The curriculum at Hogwarts had changed. Some even suggested changing currency. It seemed the only thing that wasn't changing was the government. Unlike other countries, who with the end of the death eater forces in their lands had given great thought to the laws and state of their leaders.

Hermione flipped through the letters, pulling out the _Prophet_ from within the pile. The front page showed, for probably the first time in months, something political.

"Italy elects Muggleborn as Minister of Magic," Below there was a picture of a sharp featured woman. The article talked of Italy's government and the many reforms it had made. They had made trade with other countries easier making their economy stronger. They offered refugees shelter and extended their hand to other countries to help them with their rebuilding. However the relations between Italy and England seemed strained now that a Muggleborn leader had been elected.

Her brow furrowed at the last part and sat done. In the background she could hear Molly talking to Harry and Ron about something or other, probably about their single Ron's single state and Harry's relationship with Ginny.

Below the article about the Italian prime minister there was another about a more familiar face. His blonde hair had been chopped stylishly and his grey eyes gleamed with a sort of boredom that comes with thinking that he was above everyone else. "Malfoy as Undersecretary!"

That was the reason why everyone hated England– their government hadn't changed at all. It was still run by the same people hungry for money and power, purebloods. Hermione threw the paper across the table, frowning hard. Muggleborns could do nothing about it either. They were all poor or stupid or just didn't care about the wizarding world all together, but they should care. She cared.

Hermione jumped when she noticed her two best friends had entered the room. "Merlin, you two scared me," she said, rubbing her temples.

"It's just us, 'Mione," Ron chuckled, "we're not gonna hurt ya."

"Right," she sighed. "Well, I should go. I have something to take care of at home." She stood grabbing her book and wand off the table before they could protest.

A few minutes later she was sitting in her bedroom in the small apartment she had rented in Muggle London for when she needed escape. In front of her was a mirror. It wasn't fancy, but rather plain with black molding. The looking glass stood floor-length before her leaning against a wall.

She turned in the mirror looking herself over, contemplating what made her so unreasonable compared to a Pureblood. Nothing, at all. She just didn't have the money or the land or the status that they had because she was a Muggleborn. A Muggleborn that wouldn't amount to anything, unless she changed something.

In the mirror, she quirked a brow a smirk tweaking her lips.

* * *

 _Couldn't take the blame._

 _Sick with shame._

 _Must be exhausting to lose your own game._

Draco hated the flashing of cameras almost as much as he hated the noise of dozens of camera. He was in a small pressroom that was too bloody hot, and for some reason, no one had thought to put a cooling charm anywhere. Worst of all he couldn't take out his wand at these events unless it was absolutely necessary, which it was quickly becoming.

He looked towards Minister Shacklebolt, who had finished making a his spiel about the contributions the Malfoys, he, had made to the rebuilding process– donating millions of galleons to many organizations for the needy and even donating some of their land and other properties to the efforts of making the wizarding world better than before. They shook hands allowing the cameras to snap for a minute or two, before turning to face them.

The blond was thankful when it had finally ended, but not when his dark skinned friend stood before him with a devious grin, immediately after the press conference ended.

"Undersecretary," Blaise remarked, his deep voice smooth and chillingly calm. "You are moving up in the world, Draco."

He rolled his eyes. "I suppose so, but it's not like it will matter. I'm still the Death Eater in the world's eyes." He moved past his friend, but felt a large, warm hand on his shoulder, turning him back to face him.

"But, things are changing Draco, can't you see that?" Blaise ventured. "People accept you."

"For my money, yes," the blond hissed, pulling the hand off his shoulder to swing limply at the other man's side. "But the world isn't changing for the better like you seem to think. It's only getting worse." He finally pushed past him heading for the exit.

"Believe what you will Malfoy, but things will change." Blaise shouted after him.

* * *

 _Selfishly hated,_

 _No wonder you're jaded._

 _You can't play the victim this time,_

Hermione slipped the book on to the counter, and the clerk smiled at her. "Hello Miss Granger, had a nice day?" The woman was very familiar with her as she was a very frequent customer.

"Uh, yes, you?" Hermione glanced distractedly at the woman. She was still smiling at Hermione, but turned quickly to the book.

"Pureblood Families…" the woman read off the spine of the dusty hardback from the used book section. "Taking an interest in the government, Miss Granger?"

"You could say that, yeah," she resolved, hoping the woman would continue and check her out.

"Finally, I was thinking someone should straighten those men up at Wizengamot out. People like me never get a say of what's going on up there. They're all purebloods with money, you know, they don't care about us except for the work we do. Now a days with all the money going into making everything look pretty, the taxes have gone up and I can barely make a dime. You'll listen to us, love, I'm sure," the woman chuckled to herself, handing the book receipt over. Hermione began to pull the money out, but the woman stopped her. "You're making things better dear. What you have done and will do is enough payment for any old woman." Her eyes wrinkled at the corners, as Hermione stared into them. She was again amazed at how good people could be. It made her realize again why she was about to do what she was.

With her new determination, she thrust open the door to her apartment. She threw her keys on top of her coffee table where there was a portkey placed delicately on some fabric. All around her living room she had the clutter of books from her planning and plotting and herbs from potion making scattered around in a deadly fashion. However, she barely noticed as she sat down in front of her floor length mirror.

She flipped through the pages of her latest book finding the pictures she was looking for– a family tree of the Zabini family, an ancient pureblood house with many lost links in Italy. Hermione glanced up at the mirror finally knowing what she needed to do.

With her wand, she summoned batches of potions from her kitchen, and she began the long process of apply creams to her entire body. She finally reached her face and hesitated. Did she really want to do this? Was it really something she had to do?

Hermione shook her head and applied the cream there too. At last, she was covered head to in the green gloppy liquid. It felt strange as it bubbled against her skin becoming harder as it dried. Then the pain started. Her legs started to ache as they grew taller and leaner, the skin on her face seemed to stretch and burn across her cheekbones, and all over her skin began to tear and break and fall off her body. She screamed at the horror of it, clutching the pale skin and trying to slap it back onto herself, but it wouldn't budge. Then she noticed her skin was much darker than before. She greeted her mirror again, naked and scared, the green goop had sizzle off her body.

The woman looking back at her wasn't Hermione Granger. She had high cheekbones, and darker, colder eyes. Her skin was brown and smooth. She was lean and tall. The woman before her was Hermione Granger though, she had her bushy brown hair, but that had to go as well.

She clutched her curls for one last time before she closed her eyes, bringing her wand to tap her hair uttering the final incantation to finish the look– long sleek, black hair. Now the woman in the mirror really was no longer Hermione Granger in the slightest.

* * *

 _And you're too late._

 **One year later**

"Draco," his mother asked as he played the last words Blaise had shouted over the crowd in the press room in his head. "Dear, are you feeling alright? You've been staring at your food for the past five minutes."

He finally greeted his mother's eyes, his father's staring into the side of his head from the head of the table. "Yes, the hearing today was draining," he explained, cutting into his meal.

"Is this about the girl?" His father asked, bluntly with a sneer. "Because if so, Draco, you should remember your place."

"Lucius," his mother hissed reprimanding her husband before turning back to Draco. "Dear…"she seemed about to ask something else, but his helpless expression made her rethink. "Is it?"

"No mother, I-" Draco began, but the woman cut him off with a hand and a sharp look.

"Draco, listen to me. This woman, the Pureblood _Princess_ if you will. Is staying with us, and that is final."

"Mother," Draco groaned; he felt as though he were a child again. "I understand, but I don't agree with you forcing her on me. I don't want to marry a woman I don't know."

"She is by far the most eligible woman you could marry," his mother quipped. She sighed and put down her utensils that had been clutched tightly in her hands. "We aren't in the best position, Draco. We had to pay quite a bit of money to get your father out of Azkaban and then to get you into Wizengamot." She reached across the table and held his wrist. "Think about your family, please."

Draco ripped his hand out of her grasp. "Fine, I'll think about it." He stood and left the room heading down a flight of stair to enter another wing of the house when he heard the chirp of a house elf. "Mistress Genovese, I can take your bags."

"They aren't heavy. I can handle them, but thank you. And please call me Silvia." Draco saw the woman, dark, tall and lean through the arch of the doorway to one of the many sitting rooms in the Manor. She was addressing a little quivering elf in a pressed suit.

"Young Master Malfoy," the little elf bowed. "Mistress Genovese won't let me take her bags, sir."

"It's fine, Yippy, go tell Mother and Father that she's here," he told the elf, but he never let his eyes drift from the woman. Eventually, her dark, cold gaze meet his curious gray one, stopping him in his steps.

"Silvia Genovese," he acknowledged with a nod.

"Draco Malfoy," she returned. "I never expected the Malfoy's to dress their elves."

"And I've never known a princess to not accept help." He quirked a brow.

The woman frowned. "I'm not as delicate as people make me out to be nor am I a Princess, but you made a fair point." She allowed, though it did seem rather difficult for her.

"Now, let me help you with your bags." He picked up the suitcases at her feet– they were rather light for their size– and lead her up the stairs.

"You didn't have to do that," Silvia muttered, standing by the door he had stopped in front of.

"I know," Draco smirked. "This is your room, a house elf will come and wake you in the morning for breakfast." He left her at that, striding away, his smirk still firmly in place.

* * *

 _Don't cry to me._

 _If you loved me,_

 _You would be here with me._

The first thing Hermione did was collapse on the bed that was of course the most comfortable thing she had ever felt. She rolled her eyes. "Of course the Malfoys have… everything…" She yawned and her eyes drooped, and then suddenly it was morning and the little house elf from earlier, in her butler suit, greeted her (yes, the house elf was female, Hermione had asked).

"Good morning, Mistress Genovese," the elf chittered. "It's time for breakfast."

"Right," Hermione said, chewing her mouth a bit to get the morning taste out. She looked to the elf again who was staring with even wider eyes then were at all natural, even for house elves who were notorious for being bobble-headed. "Is there something I can do for you?"

The elf blushed. "No one's ever asked me that before," she muttered looking at her feet. "I'm sorry, Miss. Call me when you are ready for breakfast." The house elf left with a pop and Hermione rolled over groaning. She had been experiencing a sort of jet lag though she had taken a portkey there.

She sat up and pulled out her schedule for the day– she liked to be organized– and stood fixing her hair with a few flicks of her finger through her curls. She ignored the mirror having memorized her appearance long ago when she created her new identity. Not to mention she hated to look into her cold, dark eyes.

Standing over her bag, she blanched at her schedule. "One, meet the Malfoys. Two, go to press conference, five hours long. Three have a private meeting with the Minister (you'll being doing this every day). Four return and sleep. Be sure to drink lots of coffee." She sighed. "You were a genius past me, thank you."

She slipped into a purple, satin dress shirt and black dress pants over top of purple stiletto boots with a small bit of toe peeking through. Hermione appraised her clothing choice in mirror admiring her foreign body's features, careful to avoid her eyes.

"Yippy," she called out. Over her time in Italy she had realized exactly how much house elves loved to work, and since the Italian policy was to treat everyone with respect unless of course they had offended you first (which had lead to famous century long family feuds) she also got to see them paid and clothed and some even with families of their own.

"Are you ready, Miss Genovese?" Yippy, the house elf, popped into existence just inside the doorway.

"Yes, is it time for breakfast?"

"It is, Mistress has just sat down," she informed Hermione.

"Fantastic," the tall woman mutter, letting the house elf lead her down the stairs, and into a grand family dining room. In Italy, grand displays such as the dining room before her weren't uncommon either, but the two cultures had greatly differed in their definition of luxury. England's aristocrats seemed to prefer all things exotic and fine, while in Italy they already had those things and prefered to use their crafts to make more artistic works. Both were very excessive to Hermione, though, and she didn't much prefer the life of total excess (some was fine, but based off of her guest room at the Manor alone, she wasn't cut out to stay sane as the Pureblood Princess).

"You have a lovely home," Hermione said to the woman at the gilded table with its gilded chairs and matching dishware. The intimidating woman smiled at her, motioning for her to sit, and they began to eat.

As it it turned out, the meal was not as horrid an affair as Hermione had hoped. Lucius hadn't come down at all; instead, taking breakfast in his study. Narcissa hadn't exactly be pleased with her husband's behavior, but she had played it off with a stiff smile. Draco stepped in, but Yippy quickly informed him of urgent business at the Ministry. Hermione watched as instead of turning around he kissed his mother goodbye and wished her good day as well as an apology for skipping breakfast with her.

It was very odd to compare the man she was seeing to the boy she had seen in school. This Draco treated her well, while the old Draco had hated the sight of her because she was a muggleborn– Hermione gripped her silverware tighter.

"Are you alright, Silvia?" Narcissa asked in her kind, motherly way that Hermione hadn't expected of the aristocratic woman, but it was very comforting to know that at least one person would be kind to her until she found out that she wasn't actually was a pureblood.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Malfoy, I should probably get going I have a long day ahead of me." She smiled cordially.

"That's right," Narcissa pouted slightly. "I was hoping they wouldn't take you away so quickly." Then the woman's eyes began to sparkle with a playful mischief. "I know, later this week we'll have a party!"

Hermione hesitated for a moment. "Yes, I would love to be able to meet some of the people from here."

"Excellent," she cheered before turning the the house elf in the butler's uniform. "Yippy, escort Silvia to the apparition point, and add the party to my calendar."

* * *

 _You want me,_

 _Come find me._

Hermione hated discussing politics for seven hours a day, but what had made it a little worth it was the work she had done. So far, she had established herself as a notable, competent woman of politics with the people's best interest at heart. Not only that, but she was seen on the cover of an edition of Witch Weekly doing charity work all over Wizarding England, leading the country to believe that she was the Pureblood Princess with a heart.

However, the day had arrived when she had to act. She couldn't just sit around and think that a Pureblood Princess doing some simple charity work would completely rid the government of Muggleborn prejudice (she could still hope). The party starting within the hour was the perfect opportunity to plant the seeds of doubt.

For the first time that week, Hermione looked the woman in the mirror directly in the eye before directing her gaze to her hair, working it into a low, tight side-bun. She gulped looking at the woman again. She was wearing gray, a long strapless dress with ruffles adorning it and section made of sheer cloth. It was rather fashionable in Milan, where she had been staying for the better part of the year after she left England leaving behind a note saying that it was too much and she'd be back in a year or two.

Thinking of that letter and its cold words, words that matched her new persona, she shuddered. She had schooled herself to not think of those memories, but being in England, her home, and staying somewhere so fear inducing, had brought back those memories that softened her heart and made her stomach sink.

"Are you ready, Miss Silvia?" Yippy asked from behind her.

"Yes, thank you, Yippy."

The house elf started to blush, muttering some nonsense about how kind she was, while leading her down the stairs and into the ballroom. Again Hermione was floored by the beauty that the house which had haunted her nightmares could have. Before anyone could notice, Hermione schooled her expression; she couldn't forget who she was. "A Princess goes to balls every day," she hissed under her breath, her heartbeat slowing to a more steady tempo.

She looked around the room finally, trying to find targets. She noticed a few people glancing at her, most were the luxurious equivalent to housewives whispering about this or that, most likely her. A few men caught her eye as well, all from Wizengamot or other important offices of the Ministry (the government was sexist even towards pureblood woman. It was a marvel she was able to edge her way as far as she did).

Suddenly, there was a body behind her, very near to her back. "Good evening, Miss Granger," Hermione froze at the man's voice.

"I'm sorry." She turned with a sickly sweet smile on her face to face the man. "But my name is Silvia Genovese, not Granger."

"I doubt that, Miss _Genovese_ ," the man hissed, returning her smile. "I know a few things about you." He leaned in closer, so no one could eavesdrop. "I know that one day you entered your apartment as Hermione and within a few hours you had left to Italy as Silvia Genovese, the Pureblood Princess, and distant relative of the Zabini family." His voice was low and soft and cutting deep into her fear. "One of my distant relatives, but I have a few connections that prove your ties are rather false."

"Would you care to dance?" He held out his arm to her.

"There's no music-" of course, as if on cue, the music began, a typical waltz. He raised a brow the question still intact. Hermione reluctantly linked her arm in his, and they joined some of the other wizards on the dance floor.

"You did some great work," he whispered in her ear. He was much closer than he needed to be. "It was almost air tight except that I knew to expect something from you. Something drastic once you realized all that had happened, and now that you're here it all fits together, doesn't it, Hermione?"

"Sir, if you think I'm Hermione Granger, you are mistaken." She clenched her jaw. " I am terribly sorry that she is no longer here, but please can address me by my proper name."

He didn't listen to a word she said. "I can let you live Hermione," he hissed in her ear, kissing her neck. "I can let you be mine, but only if you stop what you're doing now."

Hermione tried to jerk away from him, but he only yanked her closer. She caught a glimpse of his dark, cold eyes. They were like hers except the light she saw there was darker and crueler.

"I will not let the government do this to Muggleborns any longer," she told him, her tone thick with emotion. "You can do what you want with me, but I will not give in until that is done."

He sneered at her, but before he could get a word in the music finished, and someone had tapped on her shoulder. "Do you mind if I take her away for a moment, Blaise?" Draco asked from behind her.

"No not at all. I had actually just remembered I needed to talk to the Minister about something rather important." Blaise released Hermione, sharing a secret glance with her. "We should all go out to dinner sometime." His smirk grew. "Right, Silvia?"

"Of course, but I'm always so exhausted after the hours I spend in the stuffy Ministry conference rooms, going out might be rather _relaxing_." She smiled, like the good actress she had trained herself to be, causing Blaise to frown.

She turned away from the dark-skinned man to the pale one before her. Never in wildest dreams did Hermione think his face would be a relief to see. "Is he always that much of a prat?" She asked.

"What do you mean?" Draco said, but she could feel the peels of sarcasm rolling off his body. "Would you like to sit?" He motioned to some stools by the tables full of food.

They moved to sit, and watched the dancers in their rainbow of colors dresses and robes."You're wearing a muggle suit," Hermione noted, nodding to the costume.

"Yes, they're much more comfortable and less ridiculous than the typical wizard robes. That, and Mother wishes for me to show my support of the Muggleborns."

"Really?" Hermione turned her head to him sharply.

"Father hates that she had taken their side, but it's rather refreshing to see her fighting for something for herself for once."

"Now that I did not expect from a Malfoy," Hermione grumbled, the music drowning out her voice. "That's a wonderful cause to fight for," she entoned so he could hear.

"You really think so?" Draco quirked a brow.

"Of course, its actually part of why I'm here." Hermione informed him picking up a glass of sparkling green liquid from a passing house elf.

"I thought you were here for trade." Draco eyed her suspiciously from across the small table they were sitting at.

"I am and also a few other things, but those details should be left to me." She grinned and looked around spotting some of the faces she had memorized during the dull meetings about trade negotiations. "I have a few people to talk to," she chuckled and winked at him before gracefully sweeping away across the floor the eyes of purebloods following her, thinking that she was their beautiful princess. She relished in how very wrong they were.


End file.
